


Bound To War

by allthebeautifulthings9828



Series: Bound To War [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Victorian, American Civil War, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Blow Jobs, Civil War, Declarations Of Love, Dom/sub, Dominant Castiel, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Forbidden Love, Gentle Dom Castiel, Historical, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Castiel, Light Bondage, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Military, Military Castiel, Military Dean, Military Kink, Military Uniforms, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, POV Dean Winchester, Period-Typical Homophobia, Porn, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Protective Dean Winchester, Romance, Romantic Angst, Rope Bondage, Sex, Smut, Sub Dean, Uniform Kink, Uniforms, Victorian, Victorian Attitudes, destiel au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 21:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2324111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthebeautifulthings9828/pseuds/allthebeautifulthings9828
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Backstory: In the sticky, sultry summer of 1863, Private Dean Winchester fights and hacks his way through the swamps surrounding Vicksburg, Mississippi. War has a way of stripping great men of their brass and he doesn't recognize his brigade commander, General Castiel Novak, while on patrol and barks Winchester attitude at him. He just knows the general will have him put up on charges of insubordination, but little does he know, General Novak notices him for an entirely different purpose. Suddenly promoted to the general's aide-de-camp, the two embark on a secret relationship that opens newly promoted Major Winchester's eyes to an underground society where love is free and expression of love comes in tantalizing forms. But will Major Winchester choose to remain bound to General Novak once the war is over? (This was part of the Destiel Smut Brigade AU Challenge but I decided to put all 3 of my parts in one post for my readers.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Jackson, Mississippi  
May 14, 1863_

General Grant certainly knew how to celebrate a victory.

They took Jackson, Mississippi, that very afternoon--Grant's weathered troops--and they prepared a grand party like hundreds of good men weren't lying dead around the capitol city. Major Dean Winchester sneered at the whiskey barrels crammed into a supply wagon passing by his horse on their way to the Bowman House, where he also traveled. Grant installed himself there with his staff, other generals beneath him, and their staffs, likely settling in for a long night of drinking and merriment. They hadn't even taken Vicksburg yet, which was the real objective. Rail lines remained in tact around Jackson too. In short, Dean considered it far too early for drunken revelry.

Baby reared and whinnied as a lower officer rode by at a hard gallop. Messengers never took into consideration how horses turned skittish after a fight. It did little for Dean's mood.

"Woah there, Baby," he murmured, leaning down to rub her neck. The sweet black mare didn't have the temperament for war and the sooner he got her back home to the broad Kansas prairies, the better. "How you holdin' up, hm?" He glanced back over his mount and checked the litter rigged to her in the Indian style. Of course other soldiers stared at him oddly for carrying his general's baggage that way but they never had the benefit of growing up on the prairie among nomadic people. He knew how to transport goods without straining his horseflesh too much thanks to them.

In that moment, another rider came along the dirt road whooping and patting his mouth like an Indian. Boisterous laughter followed as his spur kicked his mount into a cantor.

Dean didn't care. He could have brought up that lower ranking soldier on charges for insubordination if he wanted, but it was just too hot and they were all too fed up with the slow progress toward Vicksburg to bother. All the deserters were gone anyway, for the most part. The men left who hacked through Louisiana wilderness and swam through her swamps were all battle-tested veterans. He couldn't stomach bringing up charges who had seen the elephant like his father had in the Mexican War.

Besides, Dean had a more important task on his plate. He looked back at his Indian litter again, at the lumps under an old army blanket vaguely shaped like a valise and carpet bags. They all remained safe and in his charge.

General Castiel Novak had taken a bullet, or at least as close as a man could take a bullet without being in mortal danger. It had chilled Dean's blood to watch it happen--how close he'd come to being without his commander, to watching his Castiel die. Yet they both chose to be soldiers and to fight for the Union. Soldiers often found themselves bloody, hacked up, and killed. It was, after all, the nature of the position. But no close call ever affected him that deeply. And he'd watched hundreds, perhaps thousands of men and boys writhe in agony on the field of battle as they drew their last. It only mattered that day because it'd been _him_.

So, leaving General Novak in the care of his two other adjutants, Dean rode ahead to the Bowman House to ready a room. He'd ridden Baby to the rear and collected the general's personal baggage and then made his way to Grant's headquarters, which appeared up around the bend. Obedience was his place. Obedience gave him peace. It was all for _him_.

A five-story brick affair like every other public house in the Confederacy, the Bowman House swarmed with horses, wagons, and Union soldiers. Not a filthy rebel in sight, otherwise Dean would be compelled to project a bullet through his skull. His father didn't fight for the damn states only to have Southern trash spit on the flag and denounce their government as the rotten aggressors. Fact was each time Dean thought of a rebel, the revolver itched for action in the holster on his hip.

Fighting would go on another day--probably sooner than later. For now, he gave himself solace in caring for General Novak--for Castiel. No one had to know the general keeping that Kansas boy close as his aide-de-camp meant so much more than met the eye. Indeed, if only General Grant knew....

Dean wheeled his horse 'round into the side yard of the Bowman House. Baby turned with greater care, feeling the load strapped behind her. She whinnied at Dean again as if telling him to dismount without fear of her getting spooked and bolting away. Their bond straddled a line into the supernatural and he cared more about that black mare than most everything in his life.

Soldiers milled around the yard, watching Dean pet and talk low to Baby as he undid the Indian litter from her hindquarters. He slung Castiel's valise over one shoulder and carried a pair of stuffed carpet bags over the other arm.

"Good girl," Dean told his beautiful sleek black mare. "Stay put, Baby."

A sentinel met him at the front door as he mounted the porch steps. The youngin didn't look old enough to guard the entrance with his musket gripped in blanched white fingers but Dean remembered that kid's reputation. Though his blue woolen uniform hung off his bony youthful body, he was known to be a crack shot and as equally Christian and good as he was patriotic. Dean greeted the boy with a nod, removing his wide-brimmed blue hat and raking a hand through his sweaty hair.

The boy's body snapped to attention and he saluted. "Major."

"Evenin'," Dean replied. "Private Samandriel, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

They eyed each other for a drawn moment as if some conversation should have passed between them, yet none came.

Private Samandriel's mouth twitched in an innocent, young smile. "You don't say much, do you, Major? That's what they say 'bout you. Heard you shot the fellow that took a chunk outta General Novak's arm today. Right between the eyes. That's some brave shootin' there, Major. All due respect."

Silent and without movement, scarcely even a breath, Dean observed that bright-eyed boy for a moment. The longer he stared down Private Samandriel from his six-foot vantage, the more that poor boy began shrinking as if he realized he overstepped the bounds of protocol. Still, he never broke eye contact even if he was visibly fearful and Dean admired that in the kid. A slow, barely perceptible smile parted his lips. Part of him enjoyed the dark reputation he'd acquired since the war commenced. It gave him an edge that kept strangers and lookiloos at arm's length.

"Take care of my horse," Dean finally said in a low tone. "She needs waterin' and turnin' out to pasture."

"Yes, sir," said Private Samandriel as eagerly as if Dean had charged him with personally guarding the baby Jesus.

Pushing past the boy sentinel, Dean made his way into the Bowman House. A filthy place looked to a hasty washing with Union arrival, not that the men even noticed. They were all accustomed to living in the field anyway. Dean wondered at the Southern folk who passed through that hotel before the war and considered whether it would even remain standing at the war's conclusion. He left instructions for General Novak to be brought to a room on the second floor, not knowing his condition and having no will to make him take too many flights of stairs. If he had to eject some other officer from a second floor room, he would. Few people in the world made a difference to Dean, save General Novak and his brother, Lieutenant Sammy Winchester, presently fighting in one of General Sherman's regiments.

Dean found a room over the quieter corner of the building and set Castiel's baggage on the floor, not wanting to get road dust on his bed.

The routine set in so easily for him as it did each time they stopped somewhere civilized for a night and nobody questioned why Dean had charge of Castiel's things. An aide-de-camp enjoyed the closest confidences of his general above all others. People only questioned why a mere private was plucked from obscurity to attain that general's confidence and the rank of Major to boot. Luckily Dean never cared what people thought of him.

A pitcher of cold water placed on the washstand. The photograph of Charles, Castiel's father, dusted and placed on the far chest of drawers. A clean set of underclothes and a shirt neatly folded on the bed, ready for Castiel to change and have his bloodied clothes laundered. Important papers, including a leatherbound journal, were placed in specific positions on the writing desk between a set of windows. Dean knew the routine so thoroughly that he sank into a quiet trancelike state as he moved about the room. Doing it all the right way without a detail left to chance would please Castiel and pleasing Castiel would lead to rewards that tightened the breath in his chest just picturing them.

With everything in place, Dean took a few minutes to wash up in the communal facilities at the end of the hall. Wash water turned murky brown as he rubbed away road dirt and muck from the battlefield. A soldier always took the opportunity to wash when it came, not knowing how long life in the field would last.

By the time he got back to the room, voices caught his ear and he found General Novak arrived with his two adjutants--Captain Uriel and Captain Anderson. One stood rather stout and not very tall with dark features, while the other stood long and thin with blazing red hair. Castiel though--he took the light through each of the windows and filled his blue eyes with the power of the sun. He leaned against the bedpost and lifted those eyes as soon as Dean crossed the threshold.

"Anderson, fetch the brigade surgeon," pressed Uriel.

"No," Castiel spoke with a hand raised. "It's not necessary."

Anderson had no need of protests. "But sir--"

"--A great many brave soldiers fell taking Jackson today, Captain. I won't deprive them of good surgeons for a flesh wound when--" blue eyes flickered to Dean's face again, "--when my aide-de-camp is perfectly capable of dressing such minor wounds as I've suffered. Anderson, you are to lead a foraging company. Search the town for supplies before things are destroyed. Uriel, you are to make note of our wounded and missing. Report back in the morning."

"Yes, sir," Anderson spoke for both of them.

Nodding, Uriel jammed the hat back on his head. "Good evening, General Novak."

The moment the two adjutants shut the door behind them, Castiel's leadership pretense fell away and he sank lower against the bedpost. Dean rushed to his side without thinking and kept a tight grip around his torso, steadying his balance.

"I'm fine. I'm fine," assured Castiel, a placating hand patting the air.

Wordlessly, Dean nodded and gave him a moment to regain his strength. Then the general gave a subtle nod. It was the signal. Dean commenced undoing the belt, the holster, and the scabbard, lying each over the back of a chair.

The scarlet sash around Castiel's waist gave Dean pause. All of his self control could not contain the surge of head blasting through his body, pulsing with sensational memories straight through his groin. His wrists remembered the sensation of soft red fabric bound around them, surrendering his personal power. His eyes remembered crimson tinged darkness as it wound around his head, depriving him of all senses except touch. Indeed, a hundred memories rose to the surface as he untied the sacred item and carefully folded it over the back of another chair.

"How are you, Dean?" he asked quietly, the last of his command in the field hiding away for the night.

"Tolerable," Dean answered. He then commenced undoing each gold button of Castiel's double-breasted, knee-length, blue frock coat just as he did each night.

A dark eyebrow arched. "Only tolerable?"

"It's never easy to shoot a man when you've looked into his eyes," he admitted barely above a whisper. "I did it for you today. Yet I've done it dozens of times before and it never meant a thing. Just doing my duty. That boy, though. The one who shot at you. His eyes haunt me still, Cas. I killed him without thinking of anything except revenge for hurting you."

The general reached up and a warm hand cupped Dean's cheek. Though he never spoke of it aloud, the briefest tender touch filled his aide-de-camp with renewed strength.

One by one, buttons fell open and bits of a worn old blue checked shirt revealed like a layer closer to intimacy. He moved around Castiel to his back and peeled the frock coat from his shoulders by the lapels. A faint brown stain edged his shoulder seam and then the thick odor of blood assaulted Dean's senses. The coat dropped to the floor, though Dean didn't mean it to, but the sight of a torn sleeve and torn flesh within affected him into distraction.

Castiel craned his head around, eyes darting from the coat heaped on the floor and Dean's awful expression. He said nothing but the squinted eyes conveyed it all. Pick it up. Nothing changes. We are still we, wounded or whole.

A swift fluid stooping brought Dean to the floor and he retrieved the frock coat as Castiel straightened his posture. He folded the length of blue wool and draped it over the end of the bed. A mental note scribbled through his mind to have the coat laundered and repaired as soon as they got to a stable place. He wanted no evidence left behind of the awful day.

He came forward again and commenced removing Castiel's cravat, collar, and unbuttoning his shirt, feeling that general's icy blue eyes on his features the whole time. The eyes never spoke his thoughts to anyone, yet said everything to Dean with just a flicker of light. He didn't know what to do with that amount of trust and responsibility except tuck it away deep within his chest but not too near his heart. Far too near his heart meant risking that tender organ to a man in a bond the world thought so unnatural. So evil.

Once Dean had Castiel undressed down to his drawers, the general slid onto the bed where Dean arranged pillows against the headboard. They moved together as fluidly as one body without the need to offer verbal directions--only subtle eyes cast where Dean was meant to go.

With a wash bowl and rolls of bandages, Dean joined him on the bed.

"Wait," prompted Castiel.

Dean froze, peering expectantly at him.

"Take off your riding boots before coming into my bed, Major Winchester," he ordered.

"Oh. Right." Dean admonished himself for being careless with that detail as he worked his aching feet free of black leather boots that rose to the knees. He'd stolen them off the corpse of a Confederate cavalryman some months before and found them much better suited for guarding General Novak in the saddle.

Back in bed, Dean examined the torn meat a few inches below Castiel's shoulder. The cone shaped bullet tore straight through the outer edge of his bicep muscle around the back toward his tricep muscle. Bleeding more or less stopped in a mess of heavy clots that Dean knew better to mess with--or perhaps he knew nothing at all. Perhaps a surgeon was necessary, despite the bullet cutting straight through. He knew Castiel masked his pain as Dean washed away the dried blood from the wound and began rolling the bandage wrap around his upper arm.

"Well done," the general commented as he watched Dean tie off the bandage.

"Eh, it might not stay," Dean said.

"Dean, you must learn to take a compliment," replied Castiel.

Major Winchester, a feared and respected officer in the Army of the Tennessee, felt his face go red hot with embarrassment. The general had that effect on him whether he wanted to admit it or not. It never struck him as an emasculating perception of himself but the depth of their bond, profound enough for certain rules and games of perfect trust, wouldn't be understood by outsiders. Not even Anderson and Uriel knew how close they were.

"You saved my life today," Castiel began in his most private tone.

"I reacted without thinking, as I said," countered Dean.

The general's dark brow lifted suggestively. "Because?"

Dean knew what he wanted to hear. The words clumped in his throat every damn time like a ball trying to choke the life out of him. He swallowed at nothing, palms beginning to sweat, as Castiel's insistent blue eyes bore into his forehead.

"Say it and I'll reward you," came the simple words that packed such a hard punch.

"Because...." Dean attempted, silently cursing himself for being a coward. The only time he'd been able to say it before had been in a naked, painfully aroused condition when Castiel's blue eyes turned dark and demanding. He closed his eyes and, remembering the last time in the army tent when anyone might have heard their games, felt himself growing hard with just the memory. "....I killed for you because I love you."

"Such obedience," General Novak cooed with a hand splayed over his thigh suddenly.

Dean's eyes opened again, feeling Castiel's thumb caressing his leg through the stiff, uncomfortable wool. The general offered a salacious half-smile.

"Bring me the sash, love," came the simple order.

Those five words burst through Dean's veins, running his blood hot with anticipation. The whole of his body hardened with possibilities. And, as Castiel rolled on his side and observed him with his head resting on his folded arm, Dean noticed the evidence of his own anticipation outlined in a thick pillar through his white linen drawers.

"Go on, darlin'," urged Castiel through a thin smile. "I promised a reward, did I not? Fetch me that sash now."

General Grant wasn't the only one who knew how to celebrate victory.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel took his time. He always did.

That was the kind of power he had over Dean, getting him strung up and crazy with the desire to be touched, yet never laid a hand on him. Strung up he was too. Dean's naked body stretched the length of the bed with his wrists tied to a single bedpost. Despite not having been touched yet, the longer Castiel made him wait, the higher his flushed cock grew along his belly. He felt it curving upward and filling with such a desperate ache but he couldn't crane his head down enough to look at the vulnerable state in which Castiel had him.

"Awfully eager tonight, hm?" questioned Castiel, though they hadn't spoken in a few minutes. Those were the rules. Dean spoke when he was addressed.

"We won the city," Dean said.

"Hmm, indeed." With a thoughtful nod, the general continued meandering slowly around the room striking matches to the homemade candles they always found in the Confederacy since the blockade. Hw purposefully took his time, amber light brightening the room one by one, and it drove Dean to the point of begging. Castiel merely spoke conversationally as his aide-de-camp lay on the bed with a prominent red erection curving along his belly. "Going into the fight has a bewitched you again. Remember the last time? It took a full night to run it out of you."

Run it out of him. The corner of Dean's mouth threatened to curl upward and betray the stoic appearance he wanted to convey. The words of their private language fluttered around his chest, butterfly wings beating against his heart and demanding to let Castiel in behind the walls.

The general's eyes traversed the peaks and valleys of Dean's naked body as he abandoned the candles and stripped out of his drawers. Here it came--the moment--finally. Even Dean's cock knew it as a tightened pulse surged through him. Castiel knelt on the end of the bed and waited for obedience without verbal command, just the way he wanted it. A good aide-de-camp must predict his general's wishes, after all. Dean's legs splayed open, drawing up at the knees and Castiel drank in a long moment admiring strong, parted thighs with a velvety pilar risen and pleading to be touched. His pelvis curled languidly at the air but a lightning bolt of warning shot through Castiel's features and brought Dean crashing back to earth. He hadn't been given leave to move.

After a few minutes, refusing touch, Castiel settled between Dean's legs and skimmed a palm along his inner thigh from knee to the heat of his groin. Stuttering, subtle breath hung in Dean's throat. The relief of simple skin-to-skin contact tugged at his cock again. Liquid seeped from the swollen and agitated head, and he knew--he just knew--it would be a struggle not to come before he was allowed.

Strategy. Always strategy plotted out in Castiel's mind and bled through his features. Rather than a map of terrain, Dean recognized a map of his own body in that general's eyes as he planned the conquering of Major Winchester.

"You're especially beautiful when the fight dies away in you and you surrender to me," said Castiel in a low tone, peeling away the harsh gravel from his words and giving the reward of tenderness. "Even your body lets go. The surrender is the moment I await the most, Dean. I see the slack in my sash around your wrists there and I know you could slip out of the restraint if you wanted. You could escape. You could leave me here and request a new command. The surrender is here though--" his hands rubbed long slow paths over Dean's inner thighs, gave his cock a painfully languid stroke up over the head to the base again, and returned down his thighs, "--and this surrender tells me you want to be here as much as I want you here."

Speaking didn't seem possible even if Castiel required a response. It took everything Dean had not to let his pelvis buck up into those strong hands and make those fists pump him into a quick release. He kept still, though, choosing instead to release the buildup of tension with a breathy, needy moan.

General Novak rose up on his knees with his hands planted in the mattress over Dean's shoulders. Commanding blue eyes filled his field of vision and his ordinarily full lips thinned out as he delivered a set of orders. "Major Winchester, close your eyes and listen to the celebrations downstairs. Do you hear the laughter? The drinking? Listen to the voices. One of them might be General Grant himself celebrating the fall of Jackson right now just below us. Do you hear them?"

"Yes, sir," murmured Dean with his eyes closed and his senses alive.

"If we can hear them through the floorboards, then they can hear us," Castiel said. He bent and drew a wet line over Dean's collarbones with sloppy kisses. "You shall not make a sound, Major Winchester, no matter what I do. If you do, I shall stop. No touching. No kisses. No relief. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," murmured Dean again.

"Good boy. Such perfect obedience," Castiel whispered against his skin. "Keep your eyes closed."

Not being able to watch Castiel's face as they played their game irritated Dean until the general bit the meat of his chest and he realized the blackness heightened his senses. He understood then, and again surrendered. In his mind's eye, he imagined the pink flesh marked by the bite--Castiel enjoyed marking him in various ways--and a few more little love bites dotted his throat. Each time Castiel bent down, the familiar weight of his cock bobbed against Dean's thigh. Sensation. So much sensation. He struggled to separate the tangled mess of his nerves as if all of them rushed to enjoy the general's favor. Starvation and gluttony absorbed his body all at once.

"Shh," General Novak reminded him.

For a moment, nothing. And then a wet set of fingers slid under Dean, making him realize Castiel had sucked and licked his own hand. A circling around his opening brought Dean's thighs further apart, straining his hip joints, trying to seek the kind of immediate release that Castiel purposefully denied. His rebellious nature tested the general, circling his hips against those strong fingers, and offered himself up to the intrusion, to the stretching that prepared him for more.

"Biting your lip already, Major?" teased Castiel. "My, my, my. Eager."

Dean didn't realize he bit his lip but he dissolved into the physical so deeply that he couldn't think. He only felt. His eyes flashed open against his will, securing squarely on the face hovering over his body. Immediate coldness narrowed Castiel's eyes in return and he pulled his hand away. The warning spoke clearly without an uttered syllable. If he disobeyed again, he faced perhaps days without relief from the hot tension boiling through his gut. So he obeyed, quite reluctantly, and dove into the black waters of physical sensation without watching it happen. Swollen lips met swollen lips in a kiss meant to convey reward for obedience.

Withdrawing his hand having apparently decided he couldn't wait anymore, Castiel hooked an arm under Dean's knee and folded his leg against his body. Slick, soft, yet pointed and ferociously rigid, the head of Castiel's cock slid teasingly up and down the cleft of Dean's ass. The general sucked in a staggered, harsh breath as their bodies joined in such torturously slow increments. That was the general's way, advancing slowly and deliberately to ensure total and unconditional surrender.

At least he was allowed to voice his pleasure, though wickedly muffled into Dean's chest. Dean soaked in the rewarding night as Castiel's pelvis curled and let go, curled and let go, gaining momentum as his desire possessed him. He often built games and delivered orders around his own pleasure and Dean derived pleasure from him, yet he'd pleased his general that day and enjoyed the rewards of that great man's full attention. The scarlet sash tied to Castiel's waist every day bound Dean's wrists to the bedpost over his head and his meaty fists gripped it tightly, hoping the fabric cutting into his flesh would keep him grounded enough to stay silent. He pulled the sash taught and arched his body toward the general.

Castiel's rhythm grew erratic as Dean's hips began snapping against him of their own accord. The burn of opening blended seamlessly with the pleasure of friction until neither stood in command. They moved together, quicker, quicker, racing toward the moment of perfect surrender. Yet the orders burned into Dean's brain roared back at him--do not lose control without permission. He drew back his soul, clutching that moment close to his chest.

Then it became a game of how expertly he could drive Castiel to the brink without hands and without sight. His heels dug into the mattress. Awareness of his surroundings opened and candlelight bled through his eyelids. He smelled homemade wax melting and dripping into candleholders. Then he trained his attention on Castiel as they instinctively rocked against the other. Dean's hips angled up in his rhythm, giving Castiel a deeper shot, which in turn, sucked the breath from his lungs with the bursts of electricity coursing through his limbs. He bit his bottom lips hard then, stifling a loud series of moans.

It spurned Castiel on like a horse in the last moments before it broke. His body snaked against Dean's chest, his neck, and wound up around him as if holding on for dear life. The silence truly became something erotic in itself. Only slick skin pounding slick skin broke through that silence and, in the last moments, Castiel rose up on his hands to drive himself to the hilt. The force of his commanding thrusts had the headboard bumping the wall but nothing could stop him.

"Dean!" he hissed, whispering through gritted teeth, but he really wanted to shout.

As the violent, perfect surrender of release jolted General Novak's body, Dean committed every second to memory. Keeping himself withdrawn let him have that moment, yet he clawed at his sense of control in spite of needing, craving that same release.

Patient. Be patient.

Dean stole a glimpse at General Novak in the aftermath. The great man leaned back on his haunches, his squared shoulders gleaming in the candlelight. Summer nights in Mississippi hung thick and stuck to their naked bodies. Dean peered at Castiel as he leaned back, panting and calming his rush after the fall to earth, his face tipped toward the ceiling. Dark stubble rounded his jaw and Dean, if he hadn't been restrained, would have devoured that squared jawline and strong throat. He sat up in his mind and pinned Castiel to the bed. The fantasy spun.

"Mmm," hummed the general as if sampling delectable pastries.

Quickly, Dean shut his eyes again. Castiel never realized he stole that glimpse and the rebellion within bathed in that little victory. Weight shifted on the bed and Castiel's kisses trailed up the center of Dean's chest to his mouth.

"You are good to me," he murmured. "I hardly feel pain in my arm at all anymore."

Without having leave to speak or open his eyes, Dean's lips quirked up into a pleased little smile. But Castiel took him by surprise as his fist latched around Dean's neglected cock, thickened with the urgent desire for relief. Heavy Mississippi air sucked in between his teeth as the rhythm commenced and the general's expert grip twisted and turned at all the right places. They'd been together so long that they knew each other's body better than military maps. If pressed, they could make each other erupt in their blue wool trousers in a couple of minutes off in a quiet moment in the swamp. Well-placed palms rubbing hard cocks through wool always brought about shuddering, quick releases in races before they got caught.

Thinking about stolen moments in the swamps as Castiel mouthed his neck and stroked him simultaneously swamped Dean's senses. The tightening grew intense and painful as he again arched into that fist. Only the words faster and harder registered in his mind but he couldn't order his own commander.

Jaw hanging open, eyes squeezed shut, and head thrown back into his pillow, Dean's brain burst forth in a white exploding star as his cock spurted powerful ropes over Castiel's hand. Forced silence stretched the moment until his body involuntarily panted hard--he hadn't been breathing, it seemed. The scarlet sash cut into his wrists and left pink marks as his body clenched and released days' worth of pent up frustration and fear for Castiel's life.

"Such a good boy," cooed the general.

"Mmm," Dean mimicked his afterglow, his voice thick.

His eyes opened slowly and fell on Castiel's faint, satisfied smile. They peered at each other contentedly as his loose hand milked Dean through delicious little aftershocks.

"Tell me," Castiel murmured, requesting rather than delivering an order.

The hazy night made it easier for Dean. He whispered, "I love you, Cas," without so much as looking away.

Castiel's mouth spread into a gentle smile. "I love you, Dean," he whispered as he reached up and untied the sash.

Freed, Dean wound a hand around his wrist and still felt the imprint in his skin. Good. He wanted those pink marks to be there even the next day as they resumed their official duties. As he sat upright against the headboard, Castiel leaned on an elbow beside him and took his hand.

"Let me see," he whispered. Tender care came to the pink lines with kisses along Dean's wrist. No matter how their games went, Castiel always cared for any marks or bruises left behind. And came the inevitable question, "Are you happy?"

"Yes," Dean assured, nodding.

Castiel eyed him across their pillows in contemplative silence for a time. "I want you to stay," he said suddenly.

"Stay?"

"With me," he elaborated. "After the war's decided, come to New York with me. There's a whole world there you've never seen. There are people like us hidden in plain sight. We could be happy there, Dean. We don't have to say goodbye."

"Cas, I...."

It hadn't been the first time they talked about it. Sometimes they even argued about it. Everything in Dean wanted to go to New York with Castiel.

Everything, that is, except missing his brother, Sammy.

Everything, that is, except knowing Castiel had a wife.


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel's face always fell into that pitiful, guilty shadow whenever Dean brought up the unfortunate truth that he was a married man. The truly backwards thing of it all was the way the sadness in those blue eyes made Dean feel guilty right back. It was a terrible cycle interrupted by periodic arguments and the most intense lovemaking either had ever claimed to experience.

"It's unfair to ask me to run off with you to New York when you haven't even explained how a man like you got a wife in the first place," Dean said after a long tense silence. He slid out of bed without bothering to dress. It was too hot for clothes in a Mississippi summer even if it was the middle of the night. "What will you do? Stash me away in some tiny little flat and visit whenever you happen to pass through my side of the city? I'd be little better than a prostitute, Cas."

Talking so directly of their very real problem made General Novak shrink into himself. Dean leaned on the washstand and peered at his lover sitting naked in bed through the reflection in the mirror. He hated himself for loving that general and resented a faceless woman somewhere in New York bearing his name and all the rights that came with it.

"Have you nothing to say?" Dean pressed.

"I won't converse with your back," replied Castiel, eyes flicking up to the mirror.

When Dean didn't move, Castiel fumbled his way out of the tangled sheets. Bare feet shuffled across the hardwood floor and brought him to Dean, where he slid his arms around his chest. As much as Dean didn't want to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, he leaned back into Castiel's chest as a long, solid kiss pressed into the back of his neck. They held onto each other in silence, both looking at their nakedness in the mirror. Castiel's chin hooked over his shoulder and he burrowed his face into Dean's neck. He thought he saw moisture rimming those blue eyes. Tears of regret perhaps, but well concealed in the name of the tough soldier brotherhood. Except they weren't comrades. They were in love.

"I don't understand you," Dean admitted quietly.

Arms tightened around his chest. "I asked you to come to New York with me because my wife doesn't factor into my life at all anymore. She hadn't for years. I haven't set eyes upon her face since the summer before Lincoln was elected. Asking you to join my life has nothing to do with her."

Castiel explained himself with such an apologetic tone that Dean felt his resolve softening despite wanting to hold onto anger. The anger was what kept him from loving past the point of no return.

The general foraged ahead, holding Dean as if he thought he might try to flee. "I was very young. Not really even a man yet. I married her because it was the expected thing to do, not because I was dying of love for her. Our fathers were business partners. We hardly knew each other but she was intelligent. She knew I preferred the company of men before I knew it myself and she used it to ridicule me whenever I displeased her. Our relationship quickly deteriorated to thinly veiled hatred. I took up with her father's stable hand for a while but that fizzled out too, no thanks to her. She spread lies that I was unable to perform my husbandly duties."

That made Dean laugh low and bitter in his throat. "You perform like you do in field command. Deliberate and without apology for completely conquering your target." He grinned a little. Damn it. Don't show affection.

"Yes, well, I can't seem to do that with a lady," said Castiel with a soft smile. "I never could and she hated me for it. So you see, I am married by name but not by thought, deed, or intention."

Doubts and insecurities twisted at uncomfortable angles through Dean's mind. He searched Castiel's reflection for signs of dishonesty, though he already knew there wasn't a dishonest bone in his body. Even if Dean agreed to go with him once the war ended, he feared that faceless woman who enjoyed all legal and moral rights to her husband. She could reappear at any time out of spite, cruelty, or a simple sense of womanly loneliness that might make her think she could rehabilitate him.

Dean threw off Castiel's arms and pushed away from his embrace. Wounded eyes followed him across the room, likely thinking the worst, but he knew what had to be done. Still as naked as the day he was born, Dean rustled through the desk on the opposite wall until he found paper and a jar of ink. He unscrewed the lid and, producing a pen from Castiel's valise, gave him the most hard eye he could as he set up a letter to be written. Nerves made him jumpy with the demands hanging in his throat but it had to be on his terms or no terms at all.

"Sit," he said, holding the pen out to Castiel. "You'll write to your wife. In the letter, you'll tell her that your marriage is over and you won't be seeing her anymore. Provide an allowance to support her but you've got your own life now. Tell her that she can sue you for divorce on the grounds of abandonment in three more years and then she'll be free to find a man more suited to her needs." He faltered, seeing the blank expression on Castiel's face, and feared that his demands ruined everything. Backing down just wasn't an option though. His tone softened and the pen in his hand fell slightly. "Look, Cas, I'm not gonna be your dirty little secret. People aren't going to understand us and we won't ever have a normal life like them anyway, but the least we can do is remove ourselves from the lies closest to us before we try to do this thing. I'm not gonna live in fear of this woman. I don't even know her name."

"Meg," Castiel said quietly. "Her name is Meg. I don't want you to hate her either. I imagine it must have been rather painful to have a husband like me. The things she did were because of anguish."

"Fine." Dean didn't need to know that but his nod pushed away the territorial urge.

It might have appeared comical to outsiders, two men utterly without apparel negotiating the nature of their future relationship like a peace treaty, but it had to be done. What began as a wonderful distraction of sinful games in the middle of so much destruction and death grew into sincere affection. They both lingered in their standoff knowing mutual affection had grown into the kind of love that suffocated them with a void when they were apart.

"Will you stand by me if her divorce suit comes on the grounds of infidelity? She'll have the evidence with this letter," said Castiel, glancing at the pen like a loaded gun. "Will you withstand the scandal of our ... unconventional life?"

"Deviants, Cas. You can say it. We're deviants."

Castiel vaguely retreated with the harshness of that word hitting his ears. His gaze averted to the floor and he nearly cowered. Hell, Dean did too. Nobody ever said those things out loud--not even the scores of men and women who felt that kind of unnatural love. But Dean let those thoughts marinate in his brain. They'd be called disgusting, perverted, and unnatural if Meg Novak brought charges of infidelity against him. In order to do that in the courts, she'd have to name his lover. They'd be thrust into the blinding light of a judgmental public who would, without a doubt, demand prosecution and commitment to an asylum for both of them.

"We'll face imprisonment," Castiel said as if testing it in his own mind too. "They'll say we're damaged in the head and we must be cured. Prison, hard labor, exile, sanitoriums. Are you willing to take this risk just for my freedom? Do you know how many of us are married to protect ourselves from the law, from doctors who think our lives are a matter of choice, that we choose to be deviants?"

The easy answer was to let Castiel remain married, just as he described. Dean should have let it go but nothing in his mind or heart would be satisfied sharing that general with anyone.

"Call it bullheaded possessiveness but I'd rather die than share you with someone else," he said darkly, a lump rising in his throat. The emotion welling in his eyes caught him offguard. "Are we deviants? Is there something wrong with our brains? Are we sick? Ask yourself deep down if they're right."

Unblinking, perhaps stunned with the frankness of their debate, Castiel shook his head and the candlelight glimmered over the welled emotion in his own eyes. "No, we're not sick," he whispered.

"Then I'm standing by you even if she brings these charges in the courts," promised Dean, swallowing down his fear and straightening his posture. He offered the pen one more time. "It's you and me, Cas. We can either fight for us or we can fight against us. I can't do it for you though. You have to choose me to let me choose you back."

It took a minute for Castiel to work up his nerve. Dean waited and thought how strange it was that standing up to society terrified them, yet they frequently played games of control and domination among themselves. It was easy when no one was watching, of course. The risks weren't lost on either of them, but as Castiel pushed forward and took the pen, he sank into the desk chair and scribbled out the letter to Mrs. Novak. Although Dean tried to back away and give him space, he saw his name on that paper and it suddenly felt like watching Castiel write out his criminal confession.

Once the general signed his name to the letter, he stuffed it into an envelope, addressed it, and handed it to Dean. "Post it for me, Major," he said in that tone he adopted before an oncoming battle.

"Yes, sir," Dean agreed softly.

"Are you certain about this?"

"Yep."

Castiel nodded. "Me too."

A faint smile of relief tugged at Dean's mouth. It seemed a lot easier to face everything once they both reached the decision. He bent, hands gripping the arms of Castiel's chair, and that beloved face tipped back and received a kiss. Something shifted between them with the decision to fight for each other rather than hide behind the safe normality of a wife's skirt. A surge of intimacy Dean hadn't known before flowed through his limbs and kissing Castiel wasn't just a part of the games anymore. His hands left the arms of the chair to frame the general's jaw and, though the envelope rested between two fingers, he felt free for the moment. They consciously chose not to allow police or doctors to decide for them how to live when they both knew they found love in each other under the worst of circumstances.

"I do love you," Dean whispered against his lips.

"Look at that," teased Castiel with a gentle, playful smile. "You managed to say you love me without being plagued by lust."

Low laughter rumbled in Dean's chest, setting the letter aside. "Who said I'm not plagued by lust at the moment?"

It amused Castiel, though his eyes darkened in an all too familiar way. "What a pair we are."

"Yes, well," hummed Dean, sinking to the floor between Castiel's legs, "nobody matters anymore except us. You're not gonna forget that."

Castiel lounged back in his chair and a suble grin, renewed life, added a bit of a glimmer to his deep blue eyes. His hand caressed Dean's cheek, which made Dean curl toward that touch with kisses along his palm. The rising reddened flush of an interested organ presented itself between Castiel's splayed thighs. The general never required much of a breather to get his second wind and it seemed their newly solid commitment lifted a curtain between games and sincere desires to be together.

Hands teased Castiel's inner thighs but the swiftness of his cock swelling told Dean something far more urgent burned in him. He rose on his knees and flicked his tongue over the head, listening for the hissing sucked through teeth above his head. Castiel's fingers curled into Dean's hair and nudged him down just slightly, urging him along. Full, smooth lips wrapped tightly around the general's thickness and the commencing bobbing brought out low, breathy growls down in his chest. Smooth skin sliding back and forth over Dean's lips lingered in salacious images shrouded somewhere in the rear of his thoughts.

"Wait, wait," hissed Castiel in hard syllables as he pulled Dean's head back.

"What?" He searched that face above him for signs of displeasure.

Bending forward, Castiel took him by the chin and plunged into a deep kiss. Tongues swept possessively through mouths until he finally let go with a wet pop. "Let me watch you, love," he whispered, not entirely a request.

If it was a show he wanted, Dean stood and pulled the chair a few inches facing the desk. He pushed everything aside with a clean swipe of one arm. Each foot rested on the arms of that chair as he sat on the desk, putting the entire length of his cock on display for Castiel. Hungry blue eyes roved the offering as the general slouched a bit in the chair and gave his own cock a few lazy tugs. The way his body swerved slightly told Dean he had no intention of lasting long with that private show just for him.

Still, Dean took his time, leaning against the wall and teasing himself with slow hands passing over the plaines of his skin. Castiel didn't bother to be discreet in the way he watched, almost willing Dean with his eyes to jerk himself until he shot into the air. But Dean intended to take his time and savor that night before things inevitably got ugly and complicated again. A hand snaked down along the juncture where his inner thigh met his pelvis. Biting his lip produced a low, humming moan as he pulled that hand from below his balls to palming the rigid length of his arousal. Castiel's tongue rolled across his lower lip as if watching the best meal being prepared just for him.

Seeing Castiel's fist working himself over made it impossible for Dean to stop his own fist from closing around the base of his cock and the slow stroking began. They followed each other's rhythm, only broken by sporadic and increasingly erradic moans. Precum slid between Dean's fingers as he twisted a hand around his head with each pass and he tried--he really tried to keep quiet--but Castiel watching him intensified it all beyond his endurance.

Before he knew it, Casiel's head lolled back and the grip on his cock tightened, working lightning fast. Ground teeth interrupted his groans as he came, erupting over his hand and his abdomen. Hazy and sated, he came back to reality after a few minutes, finding Dean in a perpetual state of hanging onto bliss before falling off the cliff.

It rolled through Dean slowly, building in the Mississippi heat the way storms boiled over the river as if they had all the time in the world. His focus centered on those considerate, strong, and soulful blue eyes as the glorious heat ached through each of his limbs one by one. The flooding rose slowly as each levee gave way, breaking through the last of his resistance, and only in the last moments did his body curl into the delicious eruption. Intent blue eyes memorized the sight. He leaned forward and skimmed a hand along Dean's inner thigh as liquid pearly ropes shot over his middle.

Both fell into a limp repose with quick, deep breaths slowly drifting back to normal. It had been one of their first games before they actually found the guts to touch each other. Now they sat in a room over General Grant's celebrating troops eyeing one another with lazy, happy smiles. Lazy and happy for the moment, at least. As soon as they reached reliable mail service, everything would change.

"Tell me about New York," Dean murmured after a while.

"Well," began Castiel casually, "lucky for you, I'm a monied man."

"You're rich?"

Castiel nodded as if it was no more important than chewing over the weather. "If we don't like New York, there's always Europe."

"What about my brother?" Dean asked, feeling a bit more sober.

The general shrugged. "I hear New York is crowded with pretty girls, not that I would know anything about that. If you don't want to give him up to Kansas again, perhaps he might enjoy the city."

"You don't care?"

"Why should I? He's your family." Castiel rose to his feet, wedging himself between Dean's legs. With his arms loosely slung around Dean's shoulders, their foreheads rested together and their noses rubbed. He murmured, "Write to your brother. If he makes you happy, he should remain close in your life."

"He knows about us, y'know," admitted Dean with his hands trailing Castiel's spine. "I mean, not the particulars, but he knows what I am and what you are to me."

A touch of fear lifted Castiel's eyes.

"It's fine," Dean promised. "We're gonna be fine."


End file.
